


The Smallest Distance

by sinestrated



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Author has not read past the Arrancar arc, Byakuya is a force of nature, Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five secrets Renji never told Byakuya, and one truth Byakuya knew all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smallest Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I did it again.

  1. **Water**



They’re not supposed to remember the _before._

It makes sense. Life as a soul is harrowing enough, especially for a Rukongai rat scrabbling for scraps. No one needs the added burden of knowing what they did as humans: the lives they led, the fears they had, the people they left behind.

Sometimes Renji wonders how the memories get erased. Does Soul Society have some sort of barrier, something that sifts your life like a sieve with unwanted sand? Or does it happen more naturally, the spirit’s previous life simply vanishing with the stamp from a shinigami’s zanpakutou?

Whatever the process, he hopes it’s painless. For everyone else’s sake, he hopes it’s like shedding a uniform after a long work day: a piece of yourself set aside and forgotten; take a deep breath and start over.

Not that he knows.

He’s never told anyone else. Every time the subject somehow manages to come up, Renji just shakes his head like the rest of them. _No clue,_ he says, shrugging one shoulder. _Blank slate. And just as well, too; way I am now, I wouldn’t want to meet the me from before._

They believe him. If there’s anything Renji is good at, it’s lying through his teeth. And if every few weeks he springs awake in the darkness, soaked with sweat and gasping for breath as he remembers _terror_ and _cold_ and _god somebody please help me,_ well. That’s nobody’s business but his own.

Because he remembers. In moments of weakness when he dares to close his eyes and go back, he remembers the chilly night air, the cold crunch of snow beneath his thin soles, the hiccupping cries of his baby sister echoing in the night. He remembers the guilt, the childish determination: _I’ll just take her out for a bit, just a bit, to let Mother sleep. She’ll love the snow, the beautiful winter. The lake is so pretty when it’s frozen._

And it had been pretty. Up until the ice splintered apart beneath his feet, anyway, and then there was nothing but cold and darkness and struggling and terror and the all-consuming, horrifying thought that _I’ve killed both of us._

When he woke up in Inuzuri, everything had faded. His mother’s face, his sister’s eyes, even his own name—everything lost, wiped clean away as neatly as dust blown off a windowsill. Except for that one memory. The stamp of his guilt. And he doesn’t know why it happened, why he’s the only one who wasn’t allowed to forget, but he has a few ideas.

On good days, it’s a reminder: step lightly, be aware, always watch each other’s backs.

On bad days, it’s a punishment: carry this memory with you, so you will always know what you are. An incompetent. A betrayer. A murderer.

In all his years wandering Soul Society, Renji’s never seen his sister, wouldn’t recognize her even if they crossed paths. It’s simultaneously a relief and a ragged wound that never scabs over: he’ll never need to face the direct result of his crime, but he’ll never be able to ask forgiveness either.

Three weeks into his lieutenancy at the Sixth, they’re doing training exercises in the mountains. One of their new recruits slips and falls, disappears into the river with a startled yell. Something inside Renji twists and _pulls_ , and he jumps without thinking.

He wakes up coughing, gasping for air. The world around him shimmers stark and too-bright and there is water everywhere, in his eyes, in his hair, sunk deep into his lungs and he can’t breathe, oh god, it’s happening again, he’s _failed again—_

“Lieutenant.” A hand, warm and firm, grasps his shoulder and squeezes. “Renji. _Breathe._ ”

And even though he’s been at this job less than a month, he recognizes that voice, its solid command and reassuring presence something he’s come to rely on with frightening speed. And it is as if his body responds without thought, his lungs expanding to take a deep, shaky breath, and when the world settles a bit he lifts his head to white on regal black and it shouldn’t be as grounding as it is, but it is.

He takes another breath—still wet and clammy but better—and rasps out, “Hitomi?”

His captain nods, a single efficient movement. “Fine, though very apologetic.”

Thank the gods. Renji manages a soft laugh, even though it makes his chest burn. “That’s good, sir.”

They fall into silence. And even though he’s soaked through and he’s got no idea where Zabimaru is, and the documents he’d been meaning to deliver to the Ninth are nothing but ruined wet scraps in his pocket, Renji takes a moment to close his eyes and just _breathe_. He’s alive. Hitomi’s alive. There is no blood on his ledger today.

Next to him, Byakuya shifts and withdraws his hand. It leaves Renji feeling strangely cold and bereft, and when he opens his eyes it is to see his captain with his head tilted and a small frown on his lips, as if seeing Renji from an angle he has never tried before.

And damnit, Renji knows he fucked up. He shouldn’t have jumped into the river after Hitomi, shouldn’t have placed himself at risk in such a way for something that a decent bout of _kidou_ —or even a rope—would have accomplished just as easily. Barely three weeks into his lieutenancy and he’s already proved himself a shitty officer. He sighs and lowers his gaze. “Sorry, Captain.”

He’s expecting a reprimand, or at least one of those cold, judgmental looks he’s seen Byakuya dish out countless times since joining the Sixth. At the very least he’s gonna get written up for sure. Which is why it completely blindsides him when his captain promptly hums and says, “For what?”

When Renji blinks, something in Byakuya’s eyes softens. He shifts again then, as if in mild discomfort, and the sunlight catches on his robes—they are somewhat darker than usual, heavier. Almost like they’re wet.

Then Byakuya continues, “I can hardly fault an officer for attempting to rescue his subordinate,” and Renji just…no. No _way_. Byakuya is a captain, a _noble—_ to do that, to go after Renji like he is someone important, someone worthy…?

His stunned silence doesn’t seem to bother Byakuya, who rises smoothly to his feet and turns to the worried, harrowed-looking clump of shinigami hovering a respectful distance away. “Training is over,” he says. “Prepare to depart.”

As they scramble to obey, he turns back to Renji and raises an eyebrow. Renji can’t be sure, but he thinks the corner of Byakuya’s mouth lifts just slightly as he says, “Are you going to sit there all day, Lieutenant?”

And something about the way he says it, the lightness of his voice and the forgiveness in his eyes, makes something settle in Renji’s chest. He doesn’t know what it is but the weight is welcome and sure, like a solid anchor after a long, terrible storm, and for the first time in a long time Renji feels warm and assured, like maybe, just maybe, there might be room enough in this world for him.

He doesn’t tell Byakuya any of that; his captain probably wouldn’t care one way or the other. But it’s a good feeling, something he’s missed, something he thinks he’ll cherish from now on no matter what happens between them. And right now, falling into place next to his captain where he has been assigned, where he _belongs_ …for the first time in his life, it’s enough.

 

  1. **Zabimaru**



 

The Elderstone, they call it. The jet-black slab of rock in the middle of the central courtyard at the Academy has a fancier name, of course, but damned if Renji knows it. It’s been there for as long as anyone can remember, pushing up from the ground even before the fancy white walls of the Academy rose around it, and its jagged, shapeless form has watched over thousands of shinigami-in-training, its smooth night-colored surface winking its secrets to generations of hopeful warriors.

The Academy was built around it for a reason. Every student, from the lowliest nameless Rukongai mutt to the eldest noble clan’s son, reaches a point during his training when he stands in front of the Elderstone, takes a deep breath, and presses a palm to the smooth, black rock.

Results vary; that’s what happens when you toy with magic you don’t understand. Most students, if they’ve trained and worked as hard as they should and have shown the appropriate potential, feel a soft chime from the heart of the stone and step back a moment later to a zanpakutou in their hands, blade shiny and new and ready to bond. Rukia obtained Sode no Shirayuki that way, Hisagi Kazeshini, Matsumoto Haineko, and countless others Renji has seen over the years. Every student gets to choose who witnesses the birth of his or her zanpakutou, and Renji had been honored to be present at all his friends’ zanpakutou births, joy and pride swelling within him each time one of them turned to him with a breathless smile and a glinting blade.

And of course they all smiled and punched him in the shoulder and told him to let them know when he came up, but even though they were his friends, they hadn’t made him stupid. When his turn came to face the Elderstone, Renji invited no one.

The moon shone a mere sliver in the darkened sky as he approached the stone, footfalls sounding out like gunshots in the silence of the night. The old lantern-bearer, the only other person present, nodded at him as he passed but said nothing.

The Elderstone felt cool to the touch, when Renji finally pressed his palm to its hard, unyielding surface. He would never forget the sensation: a strange buzzing, like a swarm of icy bees just below the thin layer of rock, and when the first few moments passed he felt the cold disappointment start to take hold in his heart, realizing that he had been right, he was one of _those_ , who would touch the Elderstone and wait, and wait, and receive nothing.

The explosion, when it came, seared him with a heat he would never forget.

He awoke to the worried face of the lantern-bearer hovering over him, and the unmistakable weight of his zanpakutou— _Zabimaru_ , came the name, hissed on a breath at the back of his mind—in his hand. He’d startled at first, when he turned his head and beheld the giant toothed blades—he’d never touched this sword before, how could it already be in _shikai_? But then, hearing the growl of the nue in his head, he realized.

The zanpakutou feeds off its shinigami partner, reflecting feelings and urges and hidden desires. Where Renji could lie, Zabimaru wouldn’t, and it had emerged the way Renji wanted to: furious, wounded, ready to fight to the very last cell.

The next morning, no one could figure out why the Elderstone suddenly had a huge, lightning-shaped crack in its side.

Renji learned control. He couldn’t have everyone looking at Zabimaru and seeing the anger, the wildness that laced his veins, and so he learned steadiness, learned to calm himself and to direct his reiatsu to force Zabimaru into its resting state so that others would buy his smiles and bad jokes and brittle, brittle lies. He learned, over the years, to mold his sword not into a weapon, but a mask.

By the time he enters the Sixth, managing Zabimaru has become nothing more than a quick, barely-conscious thought: _We are not angry today. We will not do battle today._ Yes, he still needs to remind himself periodically throughout the day to keep his controls, to keep his sword from springing into _shikai_ and scaring the shit out of everyone present, but he’s had practice, he knows what is necessary. He won’t let anyone see the pain and fury festering in his heart.

And then, somehow, as the weeks grow into months and he settles into his new lieutenancy, things start to get easier. It’s mostly Byakuya: something about the older man just _settles_ Renji somehow, grounds him to the earth so that he no longer feels as if he’s holding on to his sanity by a bare tether. Whenever Byakuya looks at him or speaks to him, something goes still inside Renji, that incessant buzzing beehive settling, for the moment, into a calm state of just being.

He doesn’t examine it too closely, this feeling, but he finds himself gravitating to Byakuya sometimes, becoming more aware of his captain’s presence, orienting himself to the other man like a planet settling into orbit around a constant, comforting star. He finds he can _breathe_ around Byakuya, that having the other man close just somehow opens up _space_ inside Renji’s head that wasn’t there before, allows him to think and concentrate and not feel like punching someone in the mouth the instant they step too close to him.

And it doesn’t seem to be happening only to him. Byakuya, he’s noticed, seems to relax more when Renji’s around, just a slight loosening of the shoulders and a smoothing of the brow. He doesn’t know what to make of that, honestly, whether Byakuya actually considers him a friend or if this is just what it means to be captain and lieutenant, but Renji wouldn’t have it any other way. He never would have dreamt, that first day he stepped into the Sixth Division offices, that he and Byakuya, two men from such opposite worlds, would end up settling into a routine that could best be described as _comfortable._ Still, that’s what they’ve done, and there isn’t a day that goes by that Renji isn’t grateful for it.

About two months into his lieutenancy, Byakuya begins setting Senbonzakura next to Zabimaru in the corner of their shared office when he gets in in the mornings. The first few times, Renji can’t help but stare. Eventually, though, it becomes another part of their routine, and he begins looking forward to it, the soft whisper of another zanpakutou in the back of his mind, calming the restless fires that burn inside his heart.

The first day he goes an entire shift without sparing a single thought to taming Zabimaru, Renji blinks, then spends a good ten minutes grinning stupidly to himself at his desk. He’s pretty sure he catches Byakuya watching him out of the corner of his eye, expression a mix of confusion and indulgence, but they don’t talk about it, and that’s perfectly fine.

 

  1. **Knife**



 

Renji’s hands shake, when no one is watching.

He can’t remember when it started; it feels like he just woke up one day and they were like this, his fingers trembling until he could barely hold his cup steadily enough to sip his tea. He’d been confused at first: tried a different diet (which mostly meant he ate scraps from different garbage piles), switched his sleeping schedule (not hard when you’re already jumpy as fuck), even in the end scraped together enough cash to pay the old doctor down the street to have a look.

Nothing. The old man just shrugged and said, _Maybe it’s stress._

Stress. Yeah. Renji barely resisted the urge to punch him in his cracked fucking teeth.

It wasn’t until a couple months later that he finally figured it out. He, Rukia, and the other kids were getting trouble from this other gang of street rats, some turf war or other that happened every once in a while when the adults stopped caring enough to intervene. It all came to a head in a dusty back alley, surrounded by old crates and garbage cans as they finally laid into each other, clawing and scratching and punching like stray cats fighting over a dead mouse.

Renji ended up squaring off against the bona fide leader of the other gang, some gangly kid named Kuro. He wasn’t too big at that point, hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, so when Kuro sneered and spit at his feet and said, _That pretty dark-haired girl? I’mma fuck her after this till she screams,_ Renji narrowed his eyes and let the fury guide his fists.

By the time they finally pulled him off the other boy, Kuro’s face was nothing but a swollen mass of cuts and bruises. Renji’s knuckles stung and his shoulders ached, and he had never felt more alive.

And his hands stopped shaking.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but Renji’s never considered himself a perfect man. So he does what he has to do. He enters the Academy and hacks at the dummies until he can barely lift his arms anymore. He graduates and goes into the Eleventh, where he takes his sword and kills whatever they tell him to kill. He starts fights in bars over the stupidest shit and smiles as he sinks his fists into teeth, and he launches Zabimaru with a howl at any Hollow that crosses his path, letting the violence feed him, letting it steady his hands.

But he’s not stupid. The moment he decides to leave the Eleventh, he knows he needs to find a way to leash this terrible, monstrous thing inside him, this thing that makes his hands shake when they go too long clean and blood-free. Under Kenpachi he can give free rein to the violence inside him, but outside it’ll chain him down, drive everyone away, the snarling mutt no one dares to approach.

So he takes up whittling.

His friends look at him like he’s lost his mind, and a few of them—notably Hisagi and Kira—watch him closely the first few days, as if expecting him to turn the knife on himself at any moment. He doesn’t, and eventually they draw back, having gotten close enough to scent the beast but not enough to raise his ire.

And it’s not like Renji doesn’t think about it. More than once he looks down at the knife in his hand, its thin blade winking like it’s in on some joke, and thinks about what it would feel like to drag it across his own skin, to watch the dark red well up in its wake, followed by the stinging pain, the calming, the _release_. Sometimes he goes even further, thinks of just sinking the blade into his own chest, or maybe plunging it into his stomach and hauling it sideways, gutting himself in a _seppuku_ ritual for the world that has failed him so thoroughly.

But he doesn’t. It’s fucking cowardly, and he has too many people counting on him: Rukia, for one, and Ichigo, Ikkaku and Hisagi and Momo and so many others who would be so fucking disappointed to learn he took the easy way out.

And he can’t even imagine the look of utter disdain Byakuya would give him.

The hospital room smells sterile and clean, the artificial scent of soap and antiseptic. Renji sits in the hard-backed wooden chair and watches his captain as he looks out the window, the faint breeze brushing at his hair, whispering over the bandages on his arms and chest. The wooden block in Renji’s hand holds no shape yet, and the knife sits a steady weight against his palm.

They haven’t spoken since Ichigo left. Renji doesn’t know what to say, honestly— _Sorry you nearly got killed by a fucking traitor after slicing me to itty bitty pieces for trying to save your sister’s life_ seems inadequate, somehow. But there’s no doubt that _something_ needs to be said. He can feel it in his bones, a restlessness he doesn’t recognize, something that was shaken loose during his battle with Byakuya and now demands that he _do something,_ stand up and cross the room and grab Byakuya and hit him or yell at him or _something—_

“I can understand,” Byakuya says then, still looking out the window, “if you wish to transfer to another division.”

Renji blinks, caught completely off guard. “What?”

His captain blows a soft breath out from between his lips, the smallest of sighs. “It seems prudent,” he murmurs, “to no longer wish to serve under someone who was so blinded by rules that he would not even protect his own family.”

And the way he says it, so resigned, so… _defeated_ , makes something flare up in Renji, something like anger but not quite. “Is that…is that what you think you are, sir?”

Finally, Byakuya turns to look at him, and the sadness in his eyes cuts through Renji like the sharpest of blades. “It is not what I think, Renji. It is fact.”

Renji looks at him for a moment before dropping his gaze. Staring at the block of wood in his hand, he hears Byakuya continue, “I will write whatever recommendation you ask of me. You may even apply for a captaincy with my support, if you wish. We…anticipate multiple openings in the near future.”

And shit, that’s not even…the _last_ thing Renji wants is to be promoted to captain just because they need to fill the position, and not on his own merit. Besides, he’s still got work to do under his _own_ captain; he still needs to prove to Byakuya that he’s worthy, that he’s capable, that they can walk side by side without shame or reluctance.

Byakuya seems to take his silence as acceptance, because he gives another soft sigh and doesn’t say anything more. When at last Renji glances back up, his captain is looking out the window again, face blank.

Renji frowns and looks back down at the wood in his hand. Then he tilts his head, takes a deep breath, and begins to carve.

Ten minutes later, his wrists ache and there’s a hell of a splinter in his thumb, but he pays no attention to the pain as he rises from his seat and crosses the room. Byakuya startles when the wooden lotus flower drops unceremoniously into his lap. It’s crudely done, the petals frayed and asymmetrical, and his captain frowns as he cradles the little sculpture, peering up at him in pure confusion. “Renji, what…?”

“You know what your problem is?” Renji says, folding the knife with a flick of his wrist and tucking it into his pocket. “You give up way too easy. You think the fact that a lotus grows underwater keeps it from seeking the sun? It’s fucking buried in mud and shit all its life and still it keeps growing upward until it finally breaks the surface. You don’t ever see it going all ‘Fuck it, it’s too hard, I’ll just wither away and die,’ do you?”

The flabbergasted look on Byakuya’s face would probably make him laugh, if he wasn’t so busy being pissed. Renji places his hands on his hips and glares. “If you’re gonna transfer me to another division, it’d better be because _I_ fucked up and not you. I ain’t done chasing you, Captain, and if you think you can boot me out that easily, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Silence settles in the room. Byakuya continues staring up at Renji as if seeing him for the first time, while Renji just keeps glaring down at him. Yeah, Byakuya’s not perfect, but that’s exactly what draws Renji to him. The way he always misspells ‘contingency’ in his reports, the way strands of black hair start to spill loose from the _kenseikan_ at the end of a long workday, the way he tends to leave his left side open during rightward feints, the way he sometimes smiles at Renji when he thinks Renji isn’t looking— _that_ is what Renji needs, what has drawn him back to Byakuya’s side over and over despite their arguments and disagreements and repeated butting of heads. And sure, this last disagreement was a lot bloodier than most, but Renji isn’t going to let that sever them forever.

The restlessness inside him starts up again, a tension that makes his fingers twitch. He doesn’t know exactly what he wants right now, but he knows walking away from Byakuya isn’t it.

Byakuya blinks at him for another moment. Then, abruptly, something seems to settle in his expression, an…acceptance of sorts. He places the lotus gently on the windowsill and turns to Renji. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Allow me to repay you for your trouble.”

And before Renji can say anything, he is being yanked down by the front of his robes to meet Byakuya in a kiss. And it is as if everything he couldn’t figure out before just suddenly _makes sense,_ all the roiling confusion just settling into a feeling of _right_ as he presses into Byakuya, takes all of him in: his scent, his taste, the gentle fall of his hair sliding through his fingers.

When at last they pull apart, a distinct splash of pink decorates his captain’s cheeks as Byakuya says, only a little haltingly, “You have never had to chase me, Renji. You have had me, from the very beginning.”

“Oh,” Renji says, and is pretty sure he looks like a total idiot right now and he doesn’t care a whit. “Yeah. Okay.”

He curls his fingers in Byakuya’s robes as they kiss once more, and his hands don’t shake once.

 

  1. **Tattoos**



 

The thing about Inuzuri is that not everyone there has a good heart. And while that is true in all of Soul Society, nowhere does evil get to rear its head more than in the deepest, dirtiest pocket at the outskirts of the land, no justice, no police, no protectors.

His name was Masaru. He ran a little food stall at the corner of the market, nothing big, and he always gave them what he didn’t sell at the end of the day with a soft smile and a blustering laugh. Renji liked him; they all did. He looked out for them when no one else would.

And from the beginning, for some reason, Masaru seemed to like Renji the best. He always saved him the biggest scraps, the largest helping of soup from the bottom of the pot, the freshest piece of bread. He would give Renji advice on how to manage the other kids, on which stall-owners might be sweet-talked into some spare clothes, on which buildings had been recently abandoned so they could get some shelter from a rainstorm.

Renji owed him. Masaru looked out for them so much, and so when he asked for a hug Renji gave him one, and ignored how the man’s hands seemed just a little too tight around his shoulders. When Masaru asked him to help repair his roof, and touched him around the waist and hips to steady him on the ladder, he didn’t think much about it. When Masaru offered to wash his hair, and his fingers wandered over his bare neck and shoulders and chest, Renji just concentrated on the scent of the soap and the fact that he felt clean for the first time in weeks.

It wasn’t like Masaru would hurt him, the man who fed them and clothed them and looked after them so well.

Renji remembers that humid summer evening in bits and pieces, fractured like glass. He remembers Masaru’s smile, kindly and gentle as he asked if Renji would help him repair his back door, _My knees have been acting up, you see, I need someone more spry._ He remembers the man’s blocky fist flying at his face an instant before everything exploded in white. He remembers gasping awake to suffocating heat and sweat and a body _moving_ above his, a pain he’d never felt before tearing him in half, and mostly after that he just remembers screaming, the hot salty tears on his cheeks and the filthy palm over his mouth, the burning agony and the terror, the utter helplessness.

He remembers the feel of the knife in his hands, a little serrated thing Masaru used to slice bread. He remembers crawling away into the dark hours— _years_ later, blood on his hands and his face, warm stickiness trickling down his thighs. He remembers the pain. He remembers his promise to himself, to never be the victim again.

Two weeks later, he got his first tattoo. He stared at the jagged black ink on his arm, its ugly angles and torturous curves, and felt _protected_ for the first time since that terrible night. People looked at him and saw his face, his pale skin, his bright red hair, and they thought awful things, wicked things, but he would change that. He would change _himself,_ turn himself into something undesirable, something ugly and terrifying and unworthy of a second glance.

By the time he got to the Eleventh, he was covered head to foot in a shield of ink, a thick map of ugliness that would never again allow anyone past his walls.

Three months after Byakuya kisses him in the hospital, Renji wakes up to soft pre-dawn sunlight, the slide of silk against his skin, and his captain tracing the tattoos on his chest with one finger. Byakuya looks at him with curiosity in his eyes, and Renji grits his teeth and braces for it, the comments about how his tattoos are so hot, or alluring, or countless other adjectives that he’s never been able to stand.

But then Byakuya tilts his head and whispers, “Why are you hiding?” And Renji can only stare as his lover frowns, looking confused and hurt as he follows one of the jagged black lines up to Renji’s neck. “Renji,” Byakuya says, looking straight at him, “What are you afraid of?”

And goddamnit, but Renji feels the sting of tears in his eyes because of _course_ it would be _Byakuya_ who finally figures it out. His captain makes a startled, worried noise when Renji hauls him close, but the fingers in his hair are gentle as Renji curls into Byakuya and tucks himself into his lover like a child. His voice trembles when he answers, but he knows Byakuya will not judge him for it.

“Nothing,” he says, and can’t believe he has reached this truth. “Not anymore.”

 

  1. **Loyalty**



Renji knew about Aizen from the start.

Sure, he didn’t know the _details_ , not the faked assassination, or Rukia’s execution, or the _hougyouku_ or Hueco Mundo or any of it. But he knew enough.

The thing is, you grow up like Renji did, you do what he had to do and see what he had to see, and you realize: evil is all in the eyes.

And Renji hadn’t liked Aizen’s eyes from the moment he met the guy. Yes, the former Captain of the Fifth smiled soft and talked softer, and his reiatsu was always a warm pulse, calm and collected and pure. But Renji never trusted him, not after seeing his eyes. Because, behind those ridiculous square-framed glasses and that soft fringe of brown hair, Aizen’s eyes were dead.

Renji never trusted him. But, as the months wore on and he ran into Aizen every once in a while around Soul Society, he could never bring himself to do anything about it. He should’ve voiced his concerns to his captain, at least—to Kenpachi first, and then to Byakuya. But for some reason he never did. He would watch Aizen during interdivision meetings, or they’d pass each other in the hall on the way to their respective offices, and Renji would look into Aizen’s eyes and see nothing there and didn’t say a word to anyone.

Something big was brewing, something terrible and dark behind those dead eyes, and Renji kept his silence. And it wasn’t until Gin approached him one night, melting out of the shadows like a silver ghost with a smile and a whispered proposal— _meet me outside the East Gate at midnight tonight, I wanna show you somethin’ interesting_ —that Renji finally realized why.

He hadn’t said anything because he wanted in.

He doesn’t know what drove Aizen to want to recruit him, whether it was Renji’s spiritual power, his influence in the Sixth, or maybe just how his eyes probably looked like Aizen’s own. But it didn’t change the fact that, in that moment when Gin smiled and disappeared back into the darkness, Renji considered saying yes.

The truth was Soul Society had never been good to him. A tiny cog in its vast, infinite machine, Renji had been tossed aside and forgotten more times than he could count. As Sixth Seat of the Eleventh he’d been good for little more than an occasional brawling partner, and as Lieutenant of the Sixth he felt useless next to Byakuya’s cold, calculated competence. At least, if he joined Aizen, he would finally have a _place_ , a sense of true belonging, a purpose to serve.

So he headed back to the Sixth Division barracks to pack.

On the way, he passed the division courtyard, and froze in his tracks. Byakuya sat on a bench underneath one of the cherry trees, bathed in moonlight, head bowed and eyes closed in deep meditation with Senbonzakura set across his knees. And even back then, before everything went to shit and then somehow came back together and he and Byakuya started this new, terrible, _wonderful_ thing between them, Renji stared as a passing breeze played with his captain’s long black locks and he realized that Byakuya was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And that, no matter how many times Soul Society forced him to his knees and kicked him, no matter how many people sneered at him or how many friends left him behind, he would not— _could not_ —betray his captain.

He went to bed and pushed Gin and Aizen to the back of his mind, and the next day he asked for a meeting with Yamamoto. He never got it, and received instead orders to depart with Byakuya for the human world to arrest Rukia, and, well, things got a little hectic after that.

He wonders, sometimes, if things would have been different if he’d spoken up about his suspicions. Would he have started a chain reaction that would have resulted in Aizen’s arrest and the staying of all the blood and death and suffering that came down the line? Or would Yamamoto and the other Captains merely have brushed him off like they always did, the Inuzuri dog testing his leash?

Either way, it’s done. Renji can’t change what happened; he can only change what’s coming. And right now, as he slashes out with Zabimaru at a nearby Hollow and feels the solidity of Byakuya at his back, Senbonzakura singing in the wind, Renji knows there is no place he’d rather be than right here, by his captain’s side.

Because, in the end, his loyalty doesn’t lie with Soul Society. It doesn’t lie with the Gotei 13, or Yamamoto, or Kenpachi or Ichigo or Urahara or even Rukia. Renji will always belong to Byakuya, heart and soul and everything else he can give of himself, and he will reach into Aizen’s chest and tear his beating heart out of his ribcage before he lets any harm come to his captain.

This is what it means to be loved, Renji thinks, as the last of the Hollows falls to their attack and Byakuya promptly shoves him to the ground and crawls on top of him. This is what it means to be free.

**+6. Forever**

Fifteen years is a long time.

That’s how long it’s been since the final battle, since the last of the evil forces threatening Soul Society were finally annihilated. Ichigo and his friends are now living out their lives in the human world (Rukia among them), and things in Soul Society have finally settled, a peace long overdue and cherished like a blessing.

People keep asking Renji when he’s going to apply for captaincy. It’s no secret that Hirako hates his job, and his sidelong whispers to Renji about _retirement_ and _taking a break_ at the interdivision meetings have become less joking and more desperate. Hisagi, also, has been pestering him about becoming co-captain of the Ninth, and there are whispers of Matsumoto sneaking his name onto the nominee roster every time the subject of promotions comes up. Renji does his best to laugh and shrug it all off. He’s happy where he is, as Lieutenant of the Sixth, and it’s not just because he gets to see Byakuya every day.

Although, he’ll admit, it’s a definite plus. They’re officially the worst-kept secret in Soul Society, the rumors and whispers that followed them around the first few months having long died down. It’s accepted protocol now that one won’t deploy without the other, and hardly anyone even pays attention anymore when Byakuya decides to slip his hand into Renji’s during a particularly boring mission briefing. They even won Best-Looking Couple in the Shinigami Women’s Association’s annual magazine for four years in a row, before losing to Hisagi and Matsumoto last year. (Renji had had to do a surprising amount of damage control for that one. For someone who professes to be all cool and collected and _I am above these commoner affairs_ , Byakuya has a _mean_ competitive streak.)

Nevertheless, fifteen years ago Renji would never have imagined he could end up happy, much less because of someone like _Byakuya_. But that’s exactly what happened: fifteen years of quiet kisses and lazy mornings, bloody battles and desperate prayers, stolen smiles and soft laughter. And now, Renji finally thinks they both deserve a _forever._

And that’s what’s driving him nuts right now. He bought the ring three months ago during his last mission to the human world. It had glinted at him from the store window, winked as if knowing exactly what he wanted, and he knew, the moment he saw its polished silver, the single jet-black line cutting through the middle like a neat sword-slash, that it was perfect. He can _see_ Byakuya wearing it, polishing it carefully with a cloth at the end of the day, covering it with his gloves to protect it during a sparring session, displaying it proudly at his next clan meeting just to watch his disapproving relatives turn all sorts of strange colors. It _is_ Byakuya, through and through, and Renji _aches_ when he thinks of his lover wearing it, of seeing it and knowing that Byakuya is and always will be _his._

But he has to _give_ Byakuya the ring first, and it’s been three months and he’s never found the right moment and it’s driving him up the fucking _wall._ Would Byakuya prefer a big production, flashing lights and flying doves and a live band and everything? Or would he want something smaller, more private—should Renji just chuck the ring at his head the next time they have sex?

Rukia, of course, has been no help, and Ichigo and the rest of his friends just laugh at him. Renji growls low in his throat and glares at the pile of paperwork on his desk. Fuck ‘em; see if he invites _any_ of them to the wedding.

…If there even _is_ a wedding. Because Byakuya will say yes, right? He’s been with Renji for fifteen years, and he says he loves him, and he hasn’t killed him with Senbonzakura yet even when they have one of their big fights, and. And Renji has been good to him, has tried so hard to change and improve and leave behind all the festering, horrible secrets that used to harden him so much to the world, and Byakuya makes him feel as if he is _worthy_ of love for the first time in his life. He knows Byakuya loves him, just as much if not more than Renji loves him back, and that’s enough, isn’t it? That is all they need.

“Regretfully, glaring at those papers will not, in fact, set them on fire,” comes the soft, familiar voice, and Renji blinks, glancing up to see Byakuya watching him from his own desk, expression amused.

At Renji’s silence, Byakuya’s lips pull up into a soft smile. “They are only requisition reports, Renji. You’ll have them done in no time.”

Renji sighs. “Yeah.” And then, because he knows it’s what Byakuya wants, he puts on a smile of his own and asks, “But if I _were_ to set them on fire, do you think we could evacuate the barracks _without_ concussing a recruit this time?”

That startles a soft laugh out of his lover—and Renji will never tire of seeing Byakuya laugh, the image seared into his brain like a stunning landscape or a beautiful sunset, so magnificent he almost can’t bear it—and Byakuya shakes his head. “Given our track record, I highly doubt it.”

“Well.” Renji gives Zabimaru a contemplative glance, where his zanpakutou stands propped in the corner next to Senbonzakura, as usual. “You never know until you try, right?”

“Renji, we are _not_ setting the division offices ablaze simply because you are annoyed,” Byakuya says, although the lightness doesn’t leave his eyes. He turns back to his own paperwork and picks up his brush. “Please get back to work. I want to try that new tea the Eighth Seat gifted us with dinner this evening.”

Renji sighs loudly just on principle, but can’t keep himself from smiling as he obediently bends over his papers. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Rikichi needs you to approve the new recruits who are coming on next week.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the annual budget needs to be worked out by the end of the month, so we should get started sooner rather than later.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Also, yes, always and forever, but we are having a winter wedding and your frightful friends from the Eleventh only get invited to the reception, not the ceremony.”

“Yes, sir.”

Five seconds pass before the words finally catch up to him. Renji drops his brush and snaps his head up to stare at Byakuya. “Wait, _what?_ ”

His captain just raises an eyebrow, signing his name on another form with a flourish as he continues, “I despise outdoor weddings, which are typical of summer, and do you really want Zaraki Kenpachi within a ten-mile radius of my grandfather?”

“But how…” Renji’s pretty sure he’s gaping like a fish as he struggles to come to terms with what just happened. “How did you…”

Byakuya gives up the ruse at last, setting his brush aside and turning to give Renji a smile, one of the ones he reserves just for the two of them, warm and bright and playful. “You are terrible at keeping secrets, Renji,” he says.

Renji stares. The seconds tick by. Then, when at last Byakuya tilts his head and gives him his _I-can’t-believe-I-love-this-idiot_ look, Renji finally springs into action. The anxiety that had a hold of his heart loosens and disappears, and he feels the grin split his face as he laughs, shakes his head, and pulls open the bottom drawer of his desk to remove the little velvet pouch from within.

“Should’ve known better than to try to outsmart you,” he murmurs, crossing the room to seat himself on the edge of Byakuya’s desk, taking a moment to breathe in his lover’s familiar scent before plucking the ring out of the pouch and holding it up to the light. Seeing Byakuya’s eyes widen in surprise and pleasure at the design is a gift in and of itself, and sliding the sleek metal onto his lover’s ring finger feels so much like coming home that Renji suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.

He watches as Byakuya turns his hand this way and that, admiring how the fading afternoon sunlight winks off the polished metal. At last, his lover looks up at him and says, “It looks expensive.”

Renji just shrugs. “Worth it.”

But the comment about the price shakes something up in him, and he finds himself frowning despite the warm happiness dripping down his spine. “Wait,” he says, as Byakuya blinks. “Your family. I mean, I know they know about us and they’ve sort of had to grit their teeth about it, but this is. I mean. This is _big._ What if they decide to interfere, or stage a coup or something? What if—”

“Renji.” Byakuya’s long fingers wrap around his own, the ring a shock of cool metal against his palm. His lover’s eyes are completely serious.

“I love you,” Byakuya says then, and it doesn’t matter how many times Renji’s heard it, his heart still skips sideways in his chest at the words. “You know it, I know it, and my family knows it. You are my partner in every sense of the word, my complement and my equal. And while it is true many members of my clan are inclined to judge you based on your background and upbringing, rest assured that _I_ will never do so.”

He tilts his head then, and squeezes Renji’s hand. “Besides, last I checked, I am still head of the Kuchiki Clan. Which means that anyone who objects to our joining can sit on my middle finger and spin.”

And Renji can’t help it; he laughs. Because of _course_ Byakuya would say something like that, Byakuya who is beautiful and strong and the best man Renji has ever known. Byakuya who is _his_ now, will _always_ be his, and damned but all his secrets can go fuck themselves, all the pain and terror and fury of his life up till now can scatter like leaves to the wind because he has the love of his captain, his _partner_ , and Abarai Renji is the luckiest damned man in the world.

“You,” he whispers, and doesn’t know what he means to say: _I love you_ , _I want you_ , _I will always come back to you_ , or maybe all three of those or none at all, but it doesn’t matter. Byakuya seems to understand because he just smiles and closes the distance between them, and Renji pulls him in and finally, finally lets go of everything holding him back.

As they kiss, the waning sunlight falls on a single wooden lotus flower sitting on the windowsill.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


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